


Blood In My Mouth

by mediocrityatbest



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fighting, Human AU, M/M, Other, have fun though, in fact, it came out kind of weird, there is, title from Country Song by Seether, you've been warned darling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:06:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediocrityatbest/pseuds/mediocrityatbest
Summary: A win brings him a friend, a loss brings him a friend, and an illegal fighting group can bring. . .love?





	Blood In My Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> He fight in an illegal fight club. Fight me.

The next fighter that steps into the fighting arena - a rather extravagant term for the slightly raised circle that the fights were held in - is not as tall as Virgil; maybe seven or eight inches shorter. Virgil himself is six foot four, and it was not often someone that he fought someone his height or taller. Once or twice, he definitely had. And he’d won because he’s the best fighter they’ve ever seen. He wins most of his fights, but not all of them.

No, no one in this hell hole can boast a perfect record. When the rules are so lax and rarely enforced, it’s a challenge to know what you’re walking into. If they pull a knife, you have to know how to disarm them. If they pull a gun, they’ll never be allowed back.

But you’ll probably die.

Virgil knows this. He also knows that this is a shitty way to get extra money, and he’s a lot more likely to die from a rage-induced attack in this arena, or because somebody hit him just so and they have no medical personnel, than he is to die in any other aspect of his life.

In his fake life, Virgil is an accountant who can barely do the math his job depends on.

People think that accountants have to be smart. Virgil can say with absolute certainty that they don’t. You just have to be crafty, and good at lying.

This opponent has hair that’s dyed red at the front, and Virgil is pretty sure the rest is a rainbow. He snorts. Having pride is one thing, but just wearing yourself so obviously like that is asking for trouble.

Then again, maybe this man likes asking for trouble. He looks the strike-first kind.

“V. Black versus R. Red!” the announcer shouts. “Place your bets.” He smirks slyly at Virgil. “Have fun, V. Black. This is his first fight in these parts.”

“Poor pup,” Virgil mutters. He knows the other man can’t hear him, but his face pulls down in a low snarl. Is he trying to intimidate Virgil? He’ll have to try a hell of a lot harder than that.

Virgil finds Remy in the crowd and nods subtly at them. Remy will bet on Virgil, and they’ll split the winnings.

“Are your bets placed?” The crowd cheers. The announcer roars, “Fight!”

The man lunges at Virgil, and Virgil chooses to let the blow land. It slams into his shoulder, and he twists back with it. The man follows with a few kicks, and he gets another punch to the ribs. The crowd screams. Then, Virgil kicks him in the calf. The man stumbles some, and somebody throws something into the edge of the arena. It’s quickly swept away by one of their ‘refs.’

Virgil is sort of pissed. He’d been aiming for the knee.

Virgil knows that just because a hit isn’t perfect doesn’t mean you lose. He also knows that a blocked, dodged, or partially dodged hit all tell him something about his opponent.

This does not make Virgil any less mad.

Virgil forces his rage into something more useful to him, and lets it hone his focus. This man is fast. This man is probably a little younger than Virgil. This man is agile, but so is Virgil. Far more than people expect. This man is arrogant, and expects to win against Virgil.

Now that is good. Very, very good.

And it will make beating him taste that much better.

Virgil slams a fist into the man’s ribs. He coughs and spins away, barely righting himself before the fall. Virgil tries for a kick, but the man is too fast for it to land. He punches, and it hits Virgil square in the face. The angle is awkward because of the height difference. This does not lessen the pain at all. The taste of blood fills Virgil’s mouth and he spits some of it out. He glares at the man, and quickly glances over his physique.

Virgil suddenly realizes just how big this man’s arms are.

He almost falls.

The crowd is screaming wildly, and this is far more people than usually show up to these fights. Virgil decides the man probably brought his entire posse from wherever he used to fight.

Virgil knows he used to fight, because there is no way this is the first time he’s been in the ring. He’s far better than a novice.

Virgil would bet that he’s the champion from wherever he came from.

Well, he’s about to be introduced to second place.

Virgil swings, hard, and the punch connects with the other side of the man’s chest. His leg swings out impossibly quick after, and he hits the man’s thigh so hard that he gasps and almost falls.

Now that the man is limping badly, Virgil smirks at him.

The man rages at Virgil. His leg lashes out and catches Virgil in the stomach. He stumbles back, and the man advances, punching in a precise way that has Virgil stepping back again. The edge of the circle is two steps behind him. If he is knocked out of it, the crowd will not be pleased. People don’t like a win on technicalities. They like blood and pain and giving up or passing out.

But it’s still losing, and that is not something Virgil does lightly. Or easily.

Virgil dodges the next punch, and he goes for the jaw. It’s a bit of a hack, but there’s no cheating when your reputation’s on the line.

The hit isn’t perfect, but now the man’s nose is bleeding. He stumbles back, one hand immediately covering his nose, and Virgil takes the opportunity he’s so graciously been gifted. One long leg sweeps the man’s out from under him. Virgil pounces like a cat, landing blows left and right as the man tries to dislodge him. Finally, when it’s looking like Virgil is going to give him brain damage before he’ll give, he taps the ground.

“I give! You win!” Virgil immediately rolls off the man. A pretty, blue-eyed man rushes into the circle, gathering the other and helping him off out of the circle. His wide eyes are stuck on Virgil, who grins like a spider. They disappear into the crowd.

Virgil slips out himself, pulling a hoodie on despite the uncomfortable heat, and heads to the bar. He gets a water, with ice, just like he always does. Remy comes out of the crowd, smiling like a fiend, and passes Virgil half of their loot.

“You did good, gurl,” Remy says. “Though, for a second there, I was losing my faith.”

“I was giving the crowd what they wanted.” Virgil shrugs and takes a drink.

“Well, next time don’t give your only friend a heart attack. Ain’t neither one of us getting our money if I die.”

Virgil smiles, nasty and amused. “Actually, if the better dies, all the money they bet goes to the winner. So, I’d be better off if you croaked.”

Remy squawks indignantly, a hand carefully covering their pronoun necklace. Virgil snorts and takes another drink.

“Okay, I see how much you love me,” Remy says. “I’ve never seen your opponent before.” Their eyes go glassy for a second. “Did you see his arms? I would let him punch me.”

“You would die,” Virgil says. He barely contains the laughter that threatens to bubble out when Remy lightly slaps his shoulder.

“For shame, Virgil. For shame.” Remy begins to leave.

“You were the one who thought I was going to lose!” Virgil calls at Remy’s back. Remy flips him off without turning around, and then they’re gone into the crowd. Virgil chuckles and goes back to his drink. He’d never admit it, but everything hurts.

Halfway through his third glass of water, R. Red collapses into the seat beside Virgil and orders a drink. Virgil doesn’t pay attention to what it is specifically because he couldn’t give a shit less about the man, but he can tell the beverage is alcoholic.

“So. V. Black,” the man says. He’s turned toward Virgil now, which is not something Virgil is a fan of. He wishes the man would just fuck off.

When Virgil doesn’t even face him, he huffs dramatically and then winces. His face is bandaged up, and it looks professional. Virgil wonders who did it. “My name is Roman. We fought in the ring not so long ago.” Virgil still doesn’t move, hoping the man will leave. “I said my name is Roman,” he says louder.

Virgil slowly looks at him. “Yes, and?” The man gasps, and slaps a hand over his chest. Virgil is immediately reminded of Remy, and he thinks these two would definitely hate each other. They have repellent personalities.

“Rude!” the man exclaims. He looks so honestly outraged that Virgil laughs.

“Listen, man. I don’t know you. I don’t care about you. We fought, you lost, get over it. If you have a problem, come back another night. I’ll keep beating your ass until you learn the lesson.” Virgil sips his water, finally starting to cool down. “Now leave.”

“No no no,” the man says, eyes flashing in the poor bar light. “I don’t have any sort of problem. You won, fair and square. I don’t dispute that.” Virgil stares at him for a second, not really believing him. He gets the feeling he’s going to get stabbed any second now because of a sore loser. “I want you to train me.”

Virgil chokes. “Excuse me?” he exclaims, reverting back to his polite ways. The man nods enthusiastically, and Virgil thinks he’s probably hallucinating.

“Yeah! Obviously! That’s how you improve, right? You find someone better than you, and have them teach you until you can beat them.”

“No. Fuck off,” Virgil snaps. The man does not look the least bit deterred.

“C’mon, dark and dreary! There’s no bad blood between us. Why not teach an aspiring god?”

“God?” Virgil repeats, choking on his water again. He can’t believe the audacity of this man, and now he feels like he should find out where he came from and avoid it like the plague.

“Obviously. If you’re not the best, what’s the point?”

“Income?” Virgil suggests. The man shakes his head. Before he can speak, Virgil does. “Listen, kid, the answer’s no. I’m not training you and if I never see you again, it’ll be too soon. Do you understand? Now go before I punch you again. If there’s no monetary gain for me, I won’t stop.” Roman stares at Virgil before he smiles brightly, blood on his teeth, and leaves. Virgil has a terrible sinking feeling.

Roman shows up at every fight that Virgil is at for the next month, studying him when he fights, and begging to study under him when he’s done. He gets to know Remy, even, and Virgil has never been more wrong about two people getting along. They work as a tag-team, Roman advocating for himself at the fights, and Remy advocating at all other times.

Virgil gets to know far more about Roman than he wants to, and Roman finds out his name, and somehow, Virgil agrees to teach him. They spar, they talk, but most surprisingly of all, they become friends. Virgil has never regretted making a friend so much.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The man Virgil is fighting is called G. Bald. Virgil thought it was funny at first, because anybody who is bald has an absolutely ridiculous name in the ring, and while Virgil knows that it doesn’t affect their fighting ability at all, he can’t help but laugh at them. This seemed to be a mistake, however, because this man is built like a brick wall, and he seems to be as about as wide as he is tall - meaning he is five foot nine, and his shoulders almost look just that far across.

And now, because Virgil laughed at him, he is raging mad. Virgil had at first expected this to make him sloppy, but it seemed he was actually a very focused man. Despite this, Virgil had been winning, and enough to make the crowd crazy.

But then the man had drawn a knife.

That changed things.

Virgil goes on defense. His main priority is to get the knife away from the man so that he can beat his ass properly, and with few reservations. The man lunges and Virgil dodges, trying to grab his arm. The man is no expert with a knife, but he is very quick and Virgil knows that one stab in just the right place makes him dead. He can hear Roman’s voice rising above the crowd, screaming his name. Remy is yelling for him to leave, but Virgil knows he can’t. If he backs out, he’ll never be allowed to fight here again, and they’ll lose a ton of money.

That’s not to mention that the circle of people would be pissed if he tried to cheat them of the fight they wanted, and they’d push him back into the fight. Likely right onto the knife that the other man was holding.

Virgil does not try to leave.

Then the man moves far more quickly than should be possible and he slices into Virgil’s arm. Blood is immediately rushing out and Virgil knows he is on a time limit now. The crowd screams as Virgil ducks away from the next few stabs and finally manages to kick the knife hand so hard the knife is thrown into the crowd. The noise ramps up, and Virgil stumbles back from the man. The fight only goes on for a few seconds after that, because the man lunges forward and a well-placed blow to the jaw brings Virgil down hard.

The next thing Virgil sees is his own apartment, and Roman sitting by his bed. There is no light coming in the window, but he can feel the anxious bouncing that Roman’s leg is doing.

“Virgil? Are you awake? Holy shit, I thought you’d died,” Roman exclaims. He is kneeling, leaning toward Virgil before he can respond, and his face looks worried.

“‘M fine, Roman.” Virgil forces himself up, and immediately knows something is wrong. There is nowhere near the amount of pain in his arm that there should be. He shifts the arm in front of him, twisting it to see the bandage. It’s a lot better than anything either of his friends can do.

“What the fuck?” he says, and begins to pick at the bandage. Roman grabs his hand and pulls it away.

“Hey, Brad Pitiful, why don’t you think for a fucking second?” Roman demands. “That’s on your arm for a reason.”

Virgil snorts. “I had no idea.” Roman shakes his head in defeat. “Who the fuck put this on my arm, anyway? You’re about as gentle as a raging bull and Remy’s caffeine intake makes his hands shake like a bastard.”

Roman grimaces. “Well, you got cut Virgil, and Remy and I didn’t know how to take care of it, and Remy told me we couldn’t take you to a hospital because you’d wind up dead.” Roman hesitates, and he steps back behind his chair. “So I called a friend.”

“A friend?” Virgil asks quietly. “Who?”

“He’s a good friend of mine. A doctor, actually, which is how he had access to the pain medication and he knew how to sew your arm up.” Roman’s rambling does nothing to stop Virgil’s inherent suspicion and growing anger.

“Who, Roman?”

“His name is Patton. He’s not going to tell the cops or anything, okay? He helps me when I get into shit at the fights, and he said he’d be more than happy to help a friend of mine.” Roman takes an extra step toward the door.

“Is he here?” Virgil asks.

“Yeah. He wanted to make sure that you didn’t have an adverse-” Virgil is out of the bed and shoving past Roman. His apartment is shitty, a one bedroom and one bathroom monstrosity with a kitchen-living room combo. It is in the bad part of town, and people have tried to rob Virgil more than once. They don’t make the mistake again.

Virgil stumbles out of his room, shirtless and still smelling like sweat, and sees an unfamiliar man on his couch with Remy. Remy jumps up, blue flashing at his collar.

“Virge!” The relief is evident is his voice. “Gurl, do you know how much money we lost? You’re insane.” He doesn’t ask why Virgil didn’t leave the ring. He already knows the rules.

“Who’re you?” Virgil directs this question at the unfamiliar man, despite knowing exactly who the man is. There’s only one person he can be.

“I’m Patton Hahn,” he says. There’s a slight german accent underlying his words. “Ro called me when you got hurt.” He smiles and waves at Virgil. Virgil leans against the wall, minding his arm, and nods.

“Okay. Sure.” Virgil nods, and then decides that he’s probably telling the truth and even if he’s not, Remy will protect all his stuff. “I’m taking a shower. Thanks for the help.” Virgil stumbles for the bathroom, and Patton calls after him to watch the bandage. Virgil waves him off.

When he gets out of the shower, Patton has made eggs at a stove Virgil is fairly sure was broken before. Virgil is also fairly sure he didn’t have eggs or pepper or any of the other things that are laid out on the counter. He looks confusedly between the kitchen and his couch, where the other two are, and then decides to accept it. If god decided to fix his arm and give him the first real meal he’s eaten in weeks, then Virgil wouldn’t question it. He’d take what he could get.

“Hey, Virgil!” Patton calls cheerfully from the stove. Virgil looks at him, and sees the clock. It’s three a.m. Don’t any of these people have jobs to go to in the morning?

“You bet,” Virgil mutters. He has a shirt on, and his recently dyed hair is turning the white shoulder black.The pants he’s wearing are baggy sweats he’d never be caught dead in outside his house, but he figures these three can deal with them because it’s  _ his _ house.

“I made eggs for you. Well, for everyone, actually,” Patton says. “And some sausage, but Remy told me you were a vegetarian, so I found some vegetarian bacon at the store for you. I don’t know how it tastes, but it had good reviews.” He smiles widely, and Virgil thinks that’s a lot more than most would do for a shitty stranger.

“Thanks,” Virgil mutters. He limps to the couch and throws himself on the floor in front of it, not at all paying any attention to the injuries throbbing on his body. Roman laughs at the dramatization, and Remy lays a foot on Virgil’s side. It’s quiet for a few moments, a cartoon Virgil’s never seen before playing on a T.V. that doesn’t have cable or any channels. In fact, Virgil doesn’t have a VCR or a DVD or a Blu-ray player. Virgil has just about nothing like that in his apartment, period. But somehow there’s a show playing, and from the way it goes, he bets Patton brought it over, as well as a means of playing it.

Virgil feels this is a suspicious amount of kindness in this part of town.

“Here you are,” Patton sings, passing plates around to all of them. Virgil’s food is gone is a matter of minutes. As soon as Patton sees it’s gone, he whisks the plate away and returns it with more food. Virgil wonders how much food this doctor made.

“So, Virgil, you’re the guy who beat Roman about six months ago, right?” he asks. Virgil nods. “And you’re training him now?” There’s excitement in Patton’s eyes, and Virgil admits to himself that’s it’s kind of adorable. He nods again. “That’s really neat of you, kiddo! Not everybody would be willing to help somebody out like that, and I’m really glad Roman has a friend like that.”

“Padre, be quiet,” Roman hisses, a blush dusting his cheeks. Remy leans down and takes a piece of Virgil’s bacon.

“Not bad,” he whispers. “Could be better.”

“Now Roman, are you getting embarrassed by your dear old dad?” Patton asks, and he wiggles his shoulders a bit. Roman covers his face, groaning, and Virgil bursts into laughter.

“Virgil, I think you and I are going to be really good friends,” Patton says. Virgil shrugs which is as good as outright agreement to Patton. Virgil doesn’t talk for the rest of the night, and in the morning all of them leave for their jobs. Patton makes Virgil promise to call if anything else happens, or if he just wants to hang out. Virgil nods his head like he has plans of following through on that even though he doesn’t. Somehow, he ends up doing it anyway.

Patton becomes another of Virgil’s few friends, and his ability to annoy Virgil is on par with Roman. Their friendship is strong, though, and, well, there’s not much Virgil could do about it if he wanted to.

He doesn’t really want to do anything about it, anyway.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Three months after Virgil’s sliced arm, he’s back at the ring. The first person to step up is a tall man. A man about two inches taller than Virgil, in fact. Virgil smirks, because this will definitely be fun.

The man is more obviously muscular than Virgil is, too. He is lumbering when he walks, though, and Virgil figures that speed will be his greatest asset in this fight. The man also looks sort of dumb, like he doesn’t really understand much. Virgil doesn’t put much stock in that, but the observation sticks in the back of his head.

“V. Black versus H. Red!” the announcer calls. Virgil sticks his tongue out at the man, and the man squints at him. “Place your bets!”

Virgil nods at Remy. He’s sure they stand to gain a lot more from this fight than most because people will look at them and think size is the most important aspect. Virgil’s trained for years, though, and he isn’t very worried about how big the opponent is.

The much more important characteristic of fighters is their intelligence. And while Virgil isn’t  _ smart _ , he’s observant and that’s close enough.

“Last call for bets!” the announcer calls. He lowers his voice and looks between the two before looking to Virgil. “Sorry, V. Black, but he’s got my vote.”

Virgil smiles. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

“Fight!”

Virgil slides forward and punches the man in the nose once. His head cracks back, but his feet stay planted firmly on the ground. Virgil dances back, and the man doesn’t move. Instead, he smiles at Virgil.

“You’re going down,” the man says. And then he lunges.

He gets his arms around Virgil’s waist and they both his the floor, sending up a puff of something that Virgil wishes he wasn’t laying in. The man pins both of Virgil’s legs, and begins raining punches on whatever bit of Virgil is exposed. Virgil blocks what he can, and writhes on the floor, looking for an out.

Virgil’s not a wrestler, and grappling is not something he ever found in any joy in. But he did have to know how to disengage a hold. The memories are dusty, but they are present and Virgil twists.

The man loses his grip for a moment, and Virgil uses the reprieve to buck off the ground and throw the man free. Virgil’s up before his opponent, and he throws himself forward before either of them have a chance to recover. Now Virgil is on top, punch after punch slamming home.

Except, the man seems to know much more about on-the-floor fighting than Virgil does, and Virgil is thrown off in five seconds. He rolls across the floor and springs to his feet just in time to receive a kick to the stomach that almost brings him back down. He growls and bares his teeth, bloody as they are, and he puts his hands up again.

The man laughs, and swings his leg for Virgil’s face. Virgil ducks and spins, and he can feel his ribs threatening to break, but it doesn’t matter. They can complain all they want. The goal is winning, and Virgil will.

Virgil upper-cuts the man as he rises, and his jaw clacks together. The crowd roars as he stumbles back trying to find his balance. Virgil advances again and kicks him in the ribs. When he bends over, Virgil knees him in the face. The man has lost.

Over at the bar, Roman stares at Virgil in awe, and Patton begs to give him medical attention. Virgil waves them off.

“Maybe later, Pat. For now, I get to cool off and revel in my victory.”

“Yeah, sweetcheeks,” Remy says to Patton. She split the money she has between them all and nods at Virgil. “This little baby just took down goliath, although he is no David himself.” Remy casts a scrutinizing eye over Virgil as though she were interested in him. Virgil lightly punches her arm.

“You’re talking a bunch of nonsense, Rem,” he says. Virgil takes another glass of water from the bartender and begins to sip at it.

“I thought you were going to lose,” Roman says quietly. He’s still staring at Virgil like he can’t quite believe it. “That dude was huge.”

“Roman, that would be like you fighting someone who was five foot ten.” He sips his water again. “Now, all of you get. I just want to sit here and not think about anything for a while. Go have fun.” His three friends disperse, and Virgil dumps some of the water on his sweat-soaked hair.

“Hello, V. Black.” The man who sits next to Virgil is kind of tall, and he’s dressed in an all black suit. The shirt underneath is dark blue. The tie is black. Virgil wonders what a man dressed like that is doing in a place so illegal as this. “Or should I call you Virgil?”

Virgil doesn’t look at the man directly, but he peers out of the corner of his eye. No gun, no badge, nothing suspicious except everything about him. Interesting.

“If you’re trying to guess my name, you’ll have to try a bit harder than that,” Virgil says. He takes another sip of his water.

“That is no guess, Virgil. I know your name because I did my research. I have been watching your fights for a year, and you have made me a very happy man.” He smirks at Virgil. “I am no fighter myself, but I can calculate the odds better than most. I only made the mistake of betting on your adversary once. “

“Who the fuck are you?” Virgil’s spine is rigid, and while he could definitely take this man in a fight, he doesn’t want to hurt someone who can't defend himself. 

“I am an investor, if you will.”

“And what, exactly, are you investing in?”

“The odds, Virgil. I see them, and I place my money accordingly.” One piece of the man’s slicked back hair falls into his face. “I am very good at what I do.”

“And what were the odds that I didn’t punch you out right here?” Virgil asks. He faces the man full on, and he catalogs his face. Blue eyes darker than Patton’s, black hair that isn't dyed the color like Virgil’s, a straight nose that's never been broken. It paints a pretty picture that Virgil would hate to damage.

“They were about fifty-fifty. I usually don't bet on such unsure odds but,” he smirks, “sometimes you have to take the chance.” He extends a hand to Virgil. “My name is Logan Qorey. It’s a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance.”

“Virgil Taylor,” Virgil says. He shakes Logan’s hand. “You’re an interesting man, Logan.”

“And you're quite mysterious,” Logan says. “How about we talk more about that over dinner?”

“It’s actually way closer to breakfast.”

“Food is food and a meal is a meal, Virgil. So, what do you say? Would like to accompany me?” Logan stands from his stool and raised a brow at Virgil. Virgil follows him up and leans in close. Logan flushes.

“Of course, specs,” Virgil breathes in his ear. “Just one question first: how’d you know my name?”

“I heard one of your friends say it,” Logan says, and he is impossibly redder. Virgil laughs lightly.

“Come on, then, little investor. I know just the place to eat.” Virgil begins to walk away.

“Damn tall man,” Logan says under his breath. He straightens his tie, turns on his heel, and follows Virgil out the door.

If one breakfast turns to two and two turns to dinner, Virgil’s not upset about it. If he stops going to as many fights and Logan stops betting on as many fights, neither of them are particularly bothered. If Logan helps Virgil find a job that makes it so that he doesn't have to fight, Logan won't apologize for it. And if their friends see how much happier both of them are, nobody says anything. And if both of them find something they hadn't quite believed in, well, you’ll find no complaints with them.


End file.
